Harry Potter and the Curse of Darkness
by KazakhWizard
Summary: Harry is returning for his fifth year at Hogwarts, among many strange happenings . . .


Chapter 1 ****

Chapter 1

Something is wrong.   
  
Harry laid down his quill and stared at the sheet of parchment in front of him. His eyes were bleary and tired, so much so that he could barely make out the words he had just written in his new Magic Multiglo ink, a birthday present from his friend Ron Weasley. It sparkled and glowed luminously in the dark so you didn't have to use candles.   
Harry blinked and rubbed his eyes hard, wiped his glasses clear, and placing them on his nose again, looked down.   
Now he couldn't see anything at all. He took off the glasses and yawned. He must have been tired; he hadn't meant to write those three words into his astrological chart at all - although now that he came to think about it, they actually fit in quite well, maybe even well enough to pass muster with Professor Trelawney's somewhat morbid mind (she loved predicting Harry's imminent death more enthusiastically with each class he attended). His thoughts must have got mingled with his fingers, but that didn't worry him, it had happened plenty of times before, usually at night when on the brink of sleep, eyes drooping and face flat on his desk, he was trying to write about the morning wakeup calls of Conklefrumps and Snikhodges for Professor Sprout's herbology class.   
No, what worried him were the words themselves.   
  
"AUWWWWK!"   
He was jolted out of his thoughts by an ear-splitting screech from the corner of the room. Cringing, he jumped and his eyes shot to the doorway where he half expected Uncle Vernon to come bursting in like a mad elephant with its tusks ripped out and strangle Harry for good, then and there. But nothing happened. Everything stayed completely quiet. Harry sat back and relaxed. How could he have forgotten?   
  
He stood up and walked over to the window where his owl Hedwig sat on her perch, sleeping peacefully - for now. Recently she was having these dreams where she caught a mouse and went to tell Harry in her sleep, usually by waking him with a foghorn blast loud enough to wake a sleeping dragon. Sometimes she went over and pecked him awake without realising it, to triumphantly display the imaginary dead mouse. But Harry didn't have the heart to tell her off. In fact, he didn't have the heart for a lot of things these days.   
  
Yawning, he stretched his arms as high as he could and closed his eyes. He was so tired, even though there was absolutely nothing stopping him from doing his schoolwork in broad daylight. He slowly lowered his arms back down, brushing his forehead on the way. Absently, he fingered the scar that ached so much these days and paused, thinking over the recent events that had occurred ever since he had returned home from his fourth year at Hogwarts, the wizard school that he attended year round.   
  
Yes, something was definitely wrong.   
  
Harry thought back to the day when he had arrived at the Kings Cross Station on the Hogwarts Express, back for the summer holidays. He remembered it vividly - Uncle Vernon dragging him off to the car to the accompaniment of wild waves from the Weasleys and Grangers; Hedwig hooting forlornly at the prospect of leaving her fellow owls; the silent, furious drive home; the usual terrified avoiding of Harry by his aunt and cousin Dudley.   
That was what Harry considered normal.   
But hanging over that day was a looming black cloud, freezing Harry's mind and numbing his emotions. Voldemort was back, and this time more powerful than ever . . .   
  
Harry opened his eyes and looked out of the window. He could hear pattering on the tiled roof. It had begun to rain - the black cloud had finally burst in a spectacular summer storm. Thunder rolled ominously in the distance. A bolt of lightning streaked across the sky, tearing, rending it, lighting it up in a brilliant flash. Harry closed his eyes briefly. His hand sneaked up to his scar once more, shaped like a perfect bolt of lightning . . .   
  
It was soon after his return that the pains in his scar had started. Usually just once or twice a week to begin with, then gradually becoming so that he was lucky if it throbbed only once or twice a day. Then the Dursleys, of all people, began to act in extremely odd ways. Even the fact that they were acting unusually was enough to set the warning bells off. They lived by routine and order. Uncle Vernon considered a five minute delay of the evening news a major disruption in his life. But there they were, going on outings and taking Harry with them, cooking breakfast instead of making him do it and giving plenty to Harry.   
  
But perhaps the most disturbing fact for Harry was that they had remembered his birthday, and had even given him a gift - a small tank of fish. By the Dursleys' standards, this was tremendously generous - and weird. Not only by the fact that they had for once given him something more than a box of rubber bands, but also by the fact that Uncle Vernon hated all creatures great and small, a dislike bestowed even upon his sister Marge's bulldog, Ripper.   
Harry was so confused that he had taken to shutting himself in his room and throwing himself into schoolwork. Anything to shut out the madhouse. Then he had stopped doing homework during the day, and started doing it at night instead. He felt more comfortable that way (despite the lack of sleep), although he didn't know why.   
  
Harry opened his eyes. The storm was becoming worse. He could hear Dudley whimpering softly next door. Apparently Dudley's bullyboy toughness and fearlessness weren't extended to thunderstorms. Harry sighed and flopped down on his bed. He could finish the astrological chart tomorrow. He dragged a thin blanket over himself, then drifted slowly into a deep sleep, not noticing the storm lessening and the rain ceasing, nor Hedwig flapping out the window, and not even the sudden sharp pain in his scar . . .

****

Chapter 2

The sun streaming in through the window slanted across Harry's face, warming it pleasantly, although at the same time burning one side of his ear. Birds were chirping outside, the aroma of cooked breakfast was stealing into his room . . . and a large feathery object whammed into his face, waking him with an unpleasant shock. He sat bolt upright and gasped. He had to wait a few moments for his heart to stop pounding. When it was back down to about only twice the usual speed, he looked down at the blankets. A floppy, greyish thing was sprawled across the bed. It appeared to be Errol, the Weasley family owl. Either that, or a dusty old mop carrying a piece of parchment in its talons. Harry tried to gather his thoughts and picked his glasses up from the bedside table. Dust mops don't have talons, he remembered sleepily as he put the glasses on. He peered at the mottled object. No, it was Errol all right. He looked half dead, which, Harry was quick to remind himself, he generally was most of the time. Ron always said that Errol spent more time being in a coma than alive.   
  
Harry picked up Errol and carried him over to Hedwig's cage, which went relatively unused these days ever since Hedwig was allowed the free run of Harry's room. Errol appeared to be unconscious. His eyes were half open, half shut, and the little bit in between that Harry could see looked glazed over. Harry wasn't quite sure how to leave him, so he finally draped him over the side of the water bowl with his beak dipping in the water in case he came to any time soon and needed a drink. He removed the letter from the limp talons and sat down on his bed to read it. But just as he had opened it, just as he had unfolded it and was about to start reading it, Aunt Petunia's voice screeched piercingly up the stairs, quite as effectively as a Howler.   
"BREAKFAST!" she bellowed.   
  
Straight away Harry heard a thump next door and felt the floor shaking like a baby earthquake, but it wasn't Dudley getting up; he knew for certain. A thump from next door in the early hours of the morning generally meant Dudley was rolling over in his sleep and falling out of bed on to the floor, which meant that he would take another ten or so minutes to wake up. Which meant that the breakfast would get cold. Which meant that Aunt Petunia would get VERY angry . . . and at that point, Harry leapt up and made for the door. His letter could wait until later, but quite obviously breakfast couldn't. Aunt Petunia's anger wasn't something he was willing to risk right now, especially when the Dursleys were being so nice to him as of late.   
  
Harry walked sleepily into the kitchen where his aunt was frying eggs and bacon. A newspaper sat propped up on the table, already open. He began to move towards the table, and as he did, the newspaper slid down and Uncle Vernon's ruddy face appeared over the top to see who the newcomer was. His face didn't change at all as he saw who it was.   
"Morning," he grunted as he returned to his paper. Harry nodded as he continued to the table, then froze, suddenly wide awake. How could he have nearly passed this over? Since when, in his fifteen years living in Privet Drive, had Uncle Vernon ever said 'good morning' to him? He didn't need to think about it, he knew. Never. Ever.   
  
Breakfast couldn't be over soon enough for Harry. Aunt Petunia had succeeded in waking Dudley, who, in Harry's opinion, looked like an elephant sized appendix about to rupture any minute. He was so fat that even Aunt Petunia was starting to get anxious, and there was talk of sending him to a health farm. This year his forty eight birthday presents had included an exercise bike, a treadmill, and a set of weights. Harry was a bit worried about the weights - Dudley was being civil to him, and it was evident that Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had ordered Dudley not to go near Harry with a weight in his hand, but Dudley still had an evil glint in his eye every time he saw Harry. Harry didn't particularly want concussion or to have his head split open by a fifty pound weight, and made a mental note to stay well away from Dudley. Thankfully it wasn't that hard, really. He was used to it. And Dudley's weight was slowing him down a lot more these days.   
  
As soon as breakfast was finished and Dudley was puffing like a porpoise on his treadmill, under the strict eye of Aunt Petunia, Harry slipped back upstairs. He badly wanted to read the letter, but he had other things to do first, namely feeding his new fish. There were three of them. One was a pretty, perfectly proportioned red goldfish, who at the moment was shooting frantically around the tank, bumping into her reflection on the side of the glass every now and then. She was followed closely by a black angel fish, his large fins streaming out majestically behind him as he lazily trailed after the goldfish. Harry liked the third fish the most, mainly because it was so different. It was undersized and oddly shaped, as if a chunk had been taken out of it here and there. He wasn't quite sure what colour it was. Sometimes he could swear it was green, then other times it looked purple or blue. It had a funny little black spot under it's left eye. He was a little relieved; this fish gave him back some degree of normality in his life - it proved that the Dursleys still weren't entirely human and had been mean enough not to give him three perfect fish.   
  
After his fish were fed, Harry sat down cross-legged on his bed for the second time today, and picked up his letter which was lying on the bed where he had left it. He unfolded it and instantly recognised Ron's messy, almost illegible handwriting.   
  
Dear Harry, it began.   
Hi. How are things with the Muggles? We're all fine here. Fred and George are making all this great stuff for their joke shop and say they hope you got the exploding toilet seat they sent you for your Muggle cousin. Bill and Charlie have gone back to work again but guess what they got me for my birthday before they went? I'm not going to tell you yet, wait till you come . . . Oh yeah, forgot to tell you - Mum got a house elf and she's no end bucked, but it's kind of weird. I dunno, I'll explain when you get here. Can you come as soon as possible? Dad doesn't like the Knight Bus and he won't let us use floo powder . . .   
And no wonder, thought Harry, recalling the last time the Weasleys had come to his house by that particular method and got stuck in the electric fireplace.   
. . . but he says it should be all right to come by the Flyte-by-Nyte, so we got you a ticket. Tomorrow would be good, or today is even better. Just send us an owl to tell us which flight you're coming on. Oh, and to wake Errol up [here there was a large, smudged blot indicating that Ron had stopped to think about this for a moment] on second thoughts, don't. He needs rest if he isn't dead by now. See you here soon and if the Muggles don't let you come, slip them some of these lollies Fred sent and they should.   
From Ron   
P.S. Hermione came yesterday so she's already here.   
  
Harry looked at the letter again, then dubiously at the lollies that had fallen out of the envelope along with it. They looked perfectly ordinary to him, but knowing Fred and George, they were anything but normal. He wasn't sure that he would be able to handle the consequences if he gave them to the Dursleys, remembering Fred and George's wicked grins last time they gave something to the Dursleys (with disastrous results). He was also slightly confused by the letter. He didn't know what a Flyte-by-Nyte was, what it did, where it went, or when it went. He turned the letter over, and there, attached to the back with Spellotape, was the ticket. It read:   
Flyte-by-Nyte: Ticket: blank, Time: blank, Destination: blank.   
  
Harry stared at it. He tapped it, shook it, rubbed it, but nothing happened. It stayed completely void of any information whatsoever. Harry put the ticket on the desk and stared at it. What if it could only be activated by magic? He was underage; he wasn't allowed to do magic out of school. Surely the Weasleys couldn't forget something as important as that? And he couldn't even send them an owl since Hedwig was out and Errol was, well, blacked out. He sat down in frustration. All he could do now was wait - but for what?   
Oh, and do his homework.

****

Chapter 3

Harry stayed quietly in his room for the rest of the day, looking after Errol (who regained consciousness for a minute or two, then accidentally flew into a wall and went out cold again) and finishing his chart for Professor Trelawney. He conceded to missing lunch for once. He didn't want to see the Dursleys; the less time spent with them, the better.   
He finally put his quill and parchment aside in the dusky purple evening when it was getting hard to see (and his stomach was rumbling), and went downstairs for something to eat. Luckily no one was in the kitchen, so he helped himself to a loaf of bread, and was just rooting around for some tomatoes and cheese in the fridge when he heard a nasty voice behind him. He immediately knew who it was.   
  
"I know what's going on around here," Dudley said smugly.   
Harry didn't turn around.   
"What then?" He found a pot of jam and slowly straightened up, shutting the fridge and cutting himself some bread. As he started spreading the jam on it, he listened keenly. Were all his questions, all his suspicions about to be answered? What was going on? It was beginning to creep into his mind and gnaw away there painfully like a little mouse.   
Dudley didn't answer straight away. He waddled into the middle of the kitchen and looked askance at Harry's sandwich. Harry turned around to face Dudley for the first time and took a big bite of the sandwich.   
"Well?" he said, voice muffled through the mouthful.   
But before either of them had the chance to say anything else, a big voice came booming into the room. Uncle Vernon had arrived. Harry's heart sank, and he quickly finished his food.   
  
"So, leaving us again then, boy?" asked Uncle Vernon, almost jovially.   
Harry stared suspiciously at Uncle Vernon. "Yeeess," he said finally. "I just have to get my things." He turned and began trudging up the stairs.   
When he got to the top he was surprised to hear heavy clumps coming up behind him, and was even more surprised to see Uncle Vernon push his huge, bulky frame into Harry's room behind Harry, with some difficulty. Harry ignored him and knelt on the floor, beginning to pack. Uncle Vernon watched for a while before speaking.   
"Your friends picking you up again?" he remarked casually but abruptly, leaning against the doorpost with just a hint of a grimace on his face, although it was obvious he was trying to keep his huge face squashed into an expression of innocence and kindness - the factor which scared Harry the most.   
"I don't know," said Harry truthfully, dropping an armful of his school books into the big trunk standing open in the middle of the floor. He stood up. "Maybe."   
Uncle Vernon nodded, averting his eyes from an enthusiastically waving poster on the wall of the Sweggleton Swordsmen, Harry's favourite quidditch team.   
"I'll just leave and let you get on with packing then." Uncle Vernon nodded amiably and left the room.   
Harry stared after him. He heard the heavy clumping down the staircase echo into silence. When he was sure that Uncle Vernon was completely gone, he went over and shut the door. He didn't even bother to think about what had just happened, he just shook his head and kept packing. It was beyond him. As soon as he got out of here, the better. Why, the Dursleys could be cooking up some elaborate plot to . . . Harry smiled wryly. He was beginning to sound just like Professor Moody.   
  
He went through a mental checklist. Schoolbooks: packed. Clothes: packed. That just left all the little odds and ends, like his birthday presents and all the tacky souvenirs he had bought in Diagon Alley over the years. He never risked leaving anything at Privet Drive, even though it was a safe bet that no one would dare to come anywhere near his room in his absence.   
He went to his desk and picked up the special calligraphy quill he'd received from Hermione; it seemed she had consulted with Ron before they had bought his gifts. He placed it carefully in his trunk. Next in was the Magic Multiglo ink from Ron, then Hagrid's present - a book and kit about little-known quidditch techniques. Included in the kit were several miniature model broomsticks that really flew and a couple of different coloured balls for demonstrations. It had contained a tiny Snitch as well, but unfortunately it was so small that Harry had lost it the first time he had taken it out of the box. However he thought he knew where it might have ended up, ever since Dudley had started complaining of a sharp pain in his left nostril about a week ago.   
  
Harry looked around to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything. He caught sight of the Sweggleton Swordsmen poster, peeled it off the wall, then rolled it up tightly and placed it on the top of his other possessions.   
"That's that then," he said aloud, and closed the trunk, making sure to strap it up securely. He went over to drop some food in the portable fish tank, then sat down on top of the trunk to wait, the ticket in his hands. He didn't know exactly what he was waiting for. The light outside had nearly completely faded, and thick, heavy darkness was soon to fall silently upon the street like a velvet blanket.   
  
Harry noticed it was very quiet. Extraordinarily quiet, as a matter of fact. He couldn't quite remember the last time it had been this silent in Privet Drive - no birds, no people talking, and not even any breeze. The only thing he could hear was the tiny tick, tick, tick of his watch. Sitting still, he watched the purple and silver sky outside as it gradually became darker. He looked at his watch. It was nearly on the hour. Just one minute to go. He looked back up and saw that the first star had appeared.   
Thirty seconds to go. Another star appeared, and another. It was very dark now, but maybe that was something to do with the shadowy clouds hanging heavily in the sky.   
Twenty seconds. Harry sat very still. A sudden, awful thought struck him. What if nothing happened? What if he was stuck at the Dursleys forever?   
Ten seconds. Harry gazed wildly out the window in hope of seeing something, anything to get him away from Privet Drive.   
  
He had nearly given up all hope when he saw something. It was very small, but it was definitely something, no doubt about it. He craned his neck and squinted. Something white was hurtling towards his window from a great distance away. It was coming nearer, and nearer, faster and faster. Harry stared; it was going to hit him, it was aiming right for him! He tried to move but his legs were frozen.   
Five seconds. Harry vaguely saw the outline of something with wings. He didn't stop to think. He ducked and covered his face with his arms for protection. He could just see his watch. One second. He shut his eyes and braced his body for impact . . .   
  
But nothing happened.   
  
Harry opened one eye. Still nothing slammed into him. Confused, he opened the other eye as well and looked towards the window. There was nothing there. Everything was silent again. Harry was puzzled. Could he have imagined it all?   
"AWWWWWK!"   
Harry yelled and jumped up, twirling around so fast that he lost momentum and crashed to the floor. He let all his breath out in a big whoosh when he saw what was behind him.   
"Hedwig!" He breathed a sigh of relief, heart racing. "You're back." He turned around to catch his breath and saw that it was now completely dark outside. Hedwig flew over to the water dish and took a long drink, avoiding one of Errol's feathers, which had moulted and was floating around in the bowl.   
  
Harry sat back, relieved but also disappointed. What now? The Flyte-by-Nyte ticket was useless, that much was obvious. But it wasn't like Ron to play this kind of mean trick on him. He glanced miserably down at the ticket, still clenched in his hand . . . and his heart skipped a beat. He stared at the ticket.   
Glowing blue letters, shimmering in the pitch black dark, were forming and appearing before his eyes in the blank spaces.

****

Chapter 4

Harry sat there in shock, staring at the ticket, feeling it warm and alive in his hands.   
It now read: Flyte-by-Nyte: Ticket: Activate, Time: blank, Destination: The Burrow.   
Harry stared at the words and tentatively ran a finger over the glistening surface of the ticket. Tiny blue sparks crackled and fizzled under his touch. As his finger passed over the glowing, empty space for 'Time', he gasped and nearly dropped the ticket.   
  
A long, shining blue tendril of light was opening out from the tiny space in front of his eyes. It began to spin slowly as it grew, and as it grew, it twirled faster and faster - changing colour; becoming purple, then orange, then silver! Harry stared wide-eyed, backing away slowly.   
The ray of light was now a spinning blur of bright gold. Harry was becoming dizzy just watching it. He could hear sounds faintly ringing in his ears; birds whistling and chirping in a mad frenzy, dogs barking loudly, the wind howling outside.   
Just when he thought he would have to shut his eyes to block out the madly swirling eddy of colour, just when he thought he couldn't take any more of the noise, the light streamed from all directions into a single golden beam, hovering in the air in the middle of the room.   
  
Harry realised he was backed up all the way against the wall at the same time he noticed that it was silent once more. The wind had died down and the animals had gone quiet.   
He took one step forward, then another, then stopped as suddenly as if an invisible hand had pushed on his chest. Something glowing and blue was appearing at the top of the golden scroll. It stayed suspended there for a fraction of a second, then suddenly shot down in a burst of light, unravelling down the length of the golden beam all the way to the bottom, where it bounced gently a few times before coming to a gradual stop.   
Harry stared at the column of golden light. It was a list of arrival and departure times, written in glowing letters of blue light. Each row apparently displayed a different time and route, although Harry couldn't make heads or tails of most of it.   
  
"Um, what do I do now?" he said uncertainly, to no one in particular. There was no reply. Harry looked at his watch, then back up at the floating list. "Do I just point to a time?" He waited, and again there was no answer. Harry took a deep breath. "Okay . . ."   
He raised his hand, feeling a bit stupid, and pointed to the row that said: Arrival, 6.00 am.   
"That one."   
It seemed to work, for immediately, the whole list rolled up with a crack and the bright golden scroll slowly faded away. Harry looked down at his ticket as the last of the gold light disappeared, just in time to see '6.00' appear in the tiny blue letters.   
He knew what he had to do next. He moved his hand over the ticket and pressed 'Activate', then stood back, not quite sure about what would happen. As it turned out, nothing did. At least, not for about ten seconds, which was enough time for Harry to be sure that he had done something wrong and let all guard drop and all his defences fall.   
  
Maybe he was too absorbed studying the ticket; maybe he didn't see the numerous dark shapes shooting towards the house until it was too late, but for whatever reason, he was unfortunately standing stock still when they arrived in his room. It was also unfortunate that one of the dark objects was a little too fast, a little off target and a little too inexperienced, and swiftly crashed into his face at top speed.   
Harry promptly fell to the floor clutching his nose, which was beginning to throb painfully. His eyes were already going dim, but he could just make out the brightly flashing ticket rotating close to the ceiling like a beacon, and the shadows of several large, dark objects bending over him. He also thought that he could hear Hedwig hooting, but it couldn't be, because there was something else hooting as well.   
"It might be a car horn," he said stupidly, out loud.   
Then another sharp pain stabbed through his nose. He heard the hooting getting louder.   
"Ouch," he mumbled vaguely as all consciousness ebbed away from him and he felt himself sinking into a state of blissful darkness . . .   
  
Harry was submerged in a deep, warm, murky pool. It was extremely pleasant and comfortable. So this was what it was like for Errol most of the time. Harry certainly understood why he was hardly ever conscious - this place was quite relaxing; he already didn't want to leave. One could sit here and wallow for hours. There was no pain and no discomfort. Harry wondered for a fleeting moment if he was dead. If he was, he was beginning to like it. It certainly lessened the burning pain on his nose.   
But hold on, the pain was becoming worse, not better. Harry frowned. This wasn't right. This was supposed to be the place of relaxation, of healing. And now a bright light was shining in his eyes. He squinted.   
Strange. He could feel his legs again.   
"No! I don't want to leave!" he tried to say, but no sound came out.   
Ah, that was better. Now he was floating, drifting. He opened his eyes and looked up to see the night sky, and pale moon shining directly down on him. Satisfied, he closed his eyes. He was going to . . .   
  
"WHAT?"   
Harry sat bolt upright. A chorus of angry hooting met his ears as he began to rock unsteadily. He gazed wildly around, and realised in the nick of time that he was sitting several hundred feet high in the air on something very small and that he was about to fall off it. He grabbed the sides of it and felt himself steady. There were a few disgruntled hoots, but for the most part they quietened.   
Hooting. There it was again. Harry looked around, puzzled. What on earth was it? He looked down to his right, and to his surprise, there was a large, dark owl flapping his powerful wings hard, one corner of the strong cloth Harry was kneeling on clasped firmly in his beak. There was another owl on the left corner. Owls! They were owls, Harry realised. Of course. That was what all the hooting had been. Harry turned and looked down behind him. There was one owl on each corner there too. Harry translated the name of the Flyte-by-Nyte quickly - the Flight by Night. And obviously that was why the ticket had activated at dark.   
  
He could see his trunk bobbing up and down in the air out of the corner of his eye, a little way over to the left. In the dark, it almost looked like it was moving of it's own accord, but Harry could just make out two large, dark owls flapping along with it, their talons hooked on to the handles.   
As he sat there, still slightly stunned, a huge shadow swooped in front of him and he gasped, before realising that it was yet another owl. It appeared to be the leader, because he wasn't carrying anything except for the ticket in his beak.   
Harry rubbed his nose; the swelling was already going down.   
"Hedwig!" he remembered suddenly, and twisted around fast, but not so fast as to upset the owls again. Hedwig was soaring gracefully behind him, wings outstretched as she dipped and swooped against the breeze ruffling her snowy white feathers. She was followed closely by another owl who was helping Errol along (who was hooting feebly every now and then). As Hedwig saw Harry looking, she flew over and gave his ear a friendly nibble.   
  
Suddenly, just when Harry had got comfy, he felt a drop of water on the back of his neck.   
"Hey! . . ." he began to call as he looked up.   
A tiny owl was fluttering his wings with a lot of effort, tightly clutching the tank of fish in his talons. He seemed to be struggling a bit, but when Harry offered to carry it, the little owl flounced off in a huff, very nearly dropping the tank and managing to spill a good deal of water over the side anyway. Harry winced as he saw the water flowing over the edge, but luckily the owl righted itself in time to stop the fish falling out as well. Harry noticed its beak was a bit wonky; this must have been the owl that bumped into him at Privet Drive.   
  
Harry sat back and breathed out. A tiny cloud of mist accompanied the breath. He hadn't realised it was so cold up here, especially in summer. He looked up towards the heavens. The frosty, jewel-like stars glittered in the clear, cold night sky.   
Everything was still. Only the beating of the owls' wings broke the silence.   
Suddenly Harry saw something in front of them. He sat up, his eyes wide with wonder, the breeze blowing his hair back into his face.   
In front of them unfolded a vast expanse of pure white clouds, like a field of snow, stretched out as far as the eye could see in all directions. Wispy tendrils and strands of mist swirled gently above. The pale moon shone above the unearthly scene.   
Harry drank in the view with wide open eyes. This was something else. Never could he have imagined such a sight.

****

Chapter 5

Harry sat there for hours, gazing at the fluffy, soft clouds. They almost looked as though you could walk on them. Harry resisted the temptation.   
Once, a small, fluffy cloud, slightly higher than the others, moved slowly past the odd party, nearly completely engulfing one of the owls, who hooted confusedly, flying in the opposite direction for several hundred feet before he realised he was going the wrong way. Then, another time, they flew through a thick white mist. It was a new experience for Harry, who couldn't see anything further than his nose. The novelty wore off after a while though, as the damp began to penetrate through to his skin. Luckily, they flew out before Harry felt as though he was going to come down with a cold.   
Harry lost sight of Hedwig a couple of times when she dived down to skim across the surface of the clouds; being white, she was practically invisible. Several times he longed to reach down and run his hand through the downy puffs of the clouds. However, he didn't particularly want to fall off, so he contented himself with feasting his eyes upon them instead. He would never grow tired of looking at their swirling, gently moving contours.   
Five minutes later, however, he was fast asleep, tired from the sheer unexpectedness of the trip and the almost hypnotic movement of the clouds.   
The owls kept steadily winging their way onwards into the gradually lightening, rosy sky and golden sun of dawn, whilst Harry lay curled up in a ball on the cloth, his eyes closed and his glasses hanging off his nose.   
  
Harry woke just before six o'clock. He knew this because he had grown accustomed to waking at that time during the holidays. He had had to get up pretty early if he had wanted to avoid eating breakfast with the Dursleys. He also knew the time because he had looked at his watch (although the first reason was by far the more reliable).   
He sat up on the cloth. The sky was a lot lighter. The clouds below had thinned out a good deal while he had been sleeping, and now he could see various snatches of the green countryside and tiled roofs of villages through the gaps in the clouds. He hoped no one below could see them soaring overhead.   
  
He stared down, trying to see Ron's house, but a particularly thick cloud had blown in front of his eyes, obstructing the view. Suddenly the owl in front - the one with the ticket sticking out of it's beak - gave a loud hoot and shot diagonally downwards through the huge cloud, making a hole that was filled in again straight away. Harry thought it bore a striking resemblance to quicksand. The whole group of owls turned as one. Harry grabbed on to the side of the cloth as they picked up speed. He saw the giant white cloud zooming towards them. He slammed his eyes closed and gripped the cloth even tighter.   
A moment later, he felt a cold, wet sensation all over his body. He opened his eyes and looked behind them, fighting to push his head around in the downfall of wind they were creating. The cloud hung menacingly over them, mostly grey to match the stony sky, but black in places. Rain was pelting down like bullets as they shot through the air. Drops splashed and burst everywhere on Harry's back and head. The owls were flying even faster. Harry saw Ron's house for a fleeting instant, then Hedwig - flashing by in a speedy white blur in front of his eyes, then the ground speeding towards them. Just as they were about to smash into the ground, Harry closed his eyes again and braced himself.   
  
BUMP! Harry was jolted as they landed on the ground. He felt something hard and sharp sticking into his back and rolled over, lying there staring into the grey sky as the rain pelted down, soaking him mercilessly.   
  
THUMP! Harry heard a heavy noise behind him and turned his head to see the huge trunk sitting lopsidedly on the uneven earth of the Weasley's hillock.   
  
PLOMP! Errol dropped out of the sky like a stone and landed on the ground with his eyes closed, a floppy bundle of moulting feathers. Hedwig landed neatly beside him, folding her wings.   
  
"UUUUGH!"   
  
This last sound came from Harry, who gasped and doubled up in pain as the tiny owl plummeted into his stomach with the fish tank, which fell off on to the ground and was rapidly filled by rainwater. The owl hooted apologetically and fluttered off to join the other owls, who were waiting for him a little way away. The owls rose into the air and flew away through the slicing sheets of rain. Harry watched after them, still a little winded.   
"Thanks!" he yelled, watching them disappearing into the distance.   
  
Harry stood up, his teeth chattering. He was chilled to the bone and soaked right through to his skin. His fish in one hand, he took hold of a handle of his trunk in the other and dragged it over to the front door of the Weasleys' house, which seemed to have miraculously grown a few storeys from the last time he'd visited it. He stood there, not quite sure what to do. He didn't want to wake the Weasleys too early, but then again, he didn't want to catch pneumonia either.   
Faced with those choices, he decided to ring the doorbell. Taking hold of the chain, he pulled it and heard a muffled `ding dong' somewhere inside the house.   
Almost instantly, the door shot open and Harry was staring inside the warm, firelit hallway, his hand still on the chain. There was no one there. Then he heard something clearing its throat, from somewhere below his knee. He looked down.   
  
A house elf stood there looking up at him. It was a very strange looking house elf. It was very very very very very small, for one thing. Extremely small. So small, Harry thought, that he could have carried it in one hand. Yet it didn't look that young. Harry thought this was strange. All his past experience had shown him that grown house elves were about the same height - like one size fits all. This house elf wore a tiny apron and had very small ears, another thing Harry found peculiar. House elves generally had ears like elephants in comparison, not like mice.   
  
The house elf continued to look up at him.   
"Sir, who is that?" It finally spoke, in a tiny, squeaky voice. Harry looked behind him. There was no one there.   
"Who's who?"   
"Who is that?" The house elf pointed to Harry.   
"Oh, me," said Harry. "I'm Ron's friend. I've come to stay with him for the holidays."   
The house elf seemed confused.   
"What is that?" it squeaked.   
Now Harry was the one who was confused.   
"What's what?" he repeated, wishing the house elf would hurry up. He was freezing.   
The house elf stuck out a long pointy finger towards Harry again. Now Harry was thoroughly bewildered.   
"I just told you," he reminded the elf, wondering where on earth they had found it.   
"No!" The house elf looked impatient. "What is that!" It jabbed its finger towards Harry again.   
  
Harry looked down to check that he didn't have owl poop on his shirt or anything like that. His clothes were clean, apart from the fact that they were sopping wet. Harry looked back at the house elf.   
"What do you mean?" he asked. "Do you mean me? Oh . . ." he realised. "My name?" The house elf looked stern.   
"I'm Harry Potter," he said quickly. This house elf wasn't very obliging, he thought.   
The house elf looked undecided. It didn't seem to notice that he was shivering and dripping with rain.   
"Sir will wait there," the house elf said finally, before scarpering off down the hallway.   
"But . . ." began Harry, then sighed in annoyance as it disappeared. He stood teetering on the doorstep, wondering if he should just walk in without waiting for the approval of the tiny creature. He shivered and pulled his sopping jacket collar up around his neck.   
  
The next second, Ron was tearing down the stairs, clad in green cotton pyjamas. He was followed closely by Hermione, who was wearing a long blue nightie. Hedwig soared down the stairs after them.   
"Harry!" Hermione exclaimed, rushing up and flinging her arms around him, not realising that he was wet through.   
"Euugh, you're wet through," she exclaimed, pulling away from him.   
Ron stood on the landing, his red hair almost flaming, looking madder than ever. Harry soon found out the reason why.   
"That stupid little twerp!" He clenched his teeth. "No, not you Harry," he added, seeing Harry looking at him.   
"Ditty," Hermione explained, "right Ron?"   
Ron took a deep breath. Then he exploded.   
"SHE'S SO STUPID!" he bellowed.   
Hermione tried to shush him. "Shhh, you'll wake everyone."   
Ron calmed down a little. "Good thing Hedwig came and got us. Come upstairs and get changed Harry, you'll get the flu or something otherwise. That stupid house elf . . ." He stalked up the stairs, still muttering darkly under his breath.   
  
Harry turned to Hermione as they made their way up the stairs.   
"What's happening?"   
Hermione shook her head. "Get Ron to tell you. I don't even know the half of it. I've only been here a few days. Something to do with that house elf." They stopped outside Ginny's door, where Hermione always slept when she stayed there.   
"I'll talk to you later then. You'd better hurry up and get dry," she added, "or you'll get a cold." Harry thought it was nice of Hermione to be nice, until she added,   
"There's just so much homework that we have to do. I mean, you can't practise Smelling Spells with a blocked nose, can you?" She opened the door and Harry could just glimpse a flash of bright red hair lying on a pillow before Hermione closed the door on him.   
Harry climbed the stairs another flight to Ron's room, dripping water on the stairs. He thought briefly how interesting it would be to see Mrs Weasley's face if she woke up to find a real live waterfall cascading down her staircase. He finally reached Ron's room, pushed open the door, and went in.

****

Chapter 6

Harry stared around Ron's room, fish tank in hand, glad to see something that hadn't changed in the past few weeks. If anything, the room was even more orange than usual. The walls were still decorated with the same battered old Chudley Cannons posters, the orange curtains still hung at the dusty lead-lit window, the plump Chudley Cannons bedspread was still draped over Ron's bed, and there was still a bigger mess on the floor than the one in Dudley's room, something Harry never ceased to wonder at. Then Harry realised that something was different. The carpet. It was now orange too. Ron caught Harry looking at it.   
"Cool, isn't it? Mum got it for my birthday."   
"Great," nodded Harry, resisting the urge to shade his eyes from the bright glare.   
  
Ron rummaged in a battered old chest and pulled out a dry pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and an old towel (orange) which he threw to Harry - the whole pile promptly landing on his head. At the same time, the window sprang open under the force of the wind and the curtains billowed and twirled. A few lone leaves flew into the room between the cracks in the shutters.   
"You can use this stuff until Fred and George bring your trunk in," shouted Ron over the noise of the gale, forcing shut the window, which was banging against the shutters. Harry rubbed his hair vigorously with the towel.   
"How did you get a house-elf?" he asked muffledly from under the giant towel.   
Ron grimaced, latching the window. "You won't believe it, but she just turned up on our doorstep."   
Harry blinked.   
"Mum's thrilled with her. She does everything without you even asking her. Stupid annoying twit."   
"She looks different from all the other house-elves I've seen," pondered Harry. "Dobby, for example. She's so small, and her ears don't look right."   
"That's because she's not a house-elf," answered Ron. He noted Harry's surprise. "Well, not technically. She's some kind of weird spin-off, an African pigmy house-elf, or something like that."   
Harry pulled the T-shirt over his head, which, not surprisingly, was emblazed with a Chudley Cannons insignia.   
"What's wrong with her, though?" asked Harry, confused. "If she's such a good   
worker . . ."   
Harry stopped. Ron looked like he was about to explode. Then he seemed to change his mind.   
"Hold on." And he pulled open the drawer under his bed.   
"Have a look at this."   
  
Harry leaned over, to behold a brand new shiny broom nestled snugly in the drawer. All the twigs were perfectly aligned, the handle was straight, unlike Ron's old broom.   
"My birthday present from Charlie," explained Ron proudly. He couldn't keep the grin off his face. "Of course, it's not in the same league as the Firebolt," he added, reddening. But Harry was already climbing over the bed.   
"Are you kidding?" he exclaimed, leaning down and fingering the broom, noting the smooth, aerodynamic features and individually clipped twigs. "It's fantastic!" Ron's ears turned pink.   
"It's only just come out," he muttered, embarrassed. "The Lightyear." Suddenly, without warning, his mood changed. "But do you know what I caught that, that . . . THING doing with it?" He clearly wasn't waiting for or expecting an answer, and rushed on. "Sweeping the floor. With MY new broom! She could have broken it, or anything." Ron was fuming. Harry didn't know what to say, but luckily, there was a knock at the door. Ron didn't seem about to answer, so Harry got up.   
  
"Who is it?"   
"Me," said Hermione's voice.   
"And me," said a smaller, slightly higher voice. Harry knew it was Ginny.   
The door opened and Hermione poked her head around the door.   
"Can we come in?"   
She was staring at Ron, who looked like he was about to burst a blood vessel.   
"Um, actually, I think your mum said breakfast is ready, Ron, so if you just come down when you're ready . . ." She trailed off. "All right then, Harry?" She backed out and shut the door quietly. Harry looked in surprise at his watch. He hadn't realised how much time had passed since he had arrived. He waited until the squeaking of the wooden steps had faded away, then turned to Ron.   
"Coming?"   
"In a minute," said Ron. He looked like he was about to strangle someone. Harry thought it was best to leave him to cool down for a while, and trooped down the   
long   
twisting   
winding   
twirling   
snaking   
zigzaging   
coiling   
bending   
twining   
spiraling   
curling   
curving   
weaving   
staircase, until he reached the bottom.   
He could hear voices in the kitchen, so he walked in, wondering what kind of reception he would receive.   
He soon found out.   
"HARRY!" shrieked plump red-headed Mrs Weasley, rushing over from the stove and enveloping him in a huge hug. "How are you, we were so worried about the ticket and all and we weren't even sure that you'd be able to use it because we didn't send instructions and then we didn't have any owls we could use to send you a message because you had Errol (of course) but YOU"RE HERE at last!" The tirade of words washed completely over Harry as he tried unsuccessfully to breathe and wriggle out from Mrs Weasley's iron grip at the same time. At last she released him and held him back at arm's length, her eyes rather shiny. "And goodness me, you've grown, and . . . "   
Mrs Weasley rattled on for ages. Harry stared helplessly around the kitchen. Fred and George were sitting at the table, grinning their heads off at his predicament. Hermione was too absorbed in a giant book, probably Smelling Spells, to notice him, and Ginny was blushing furiously and trying not to catch his eye. Harry supposed Mr Weasley was already at work. At last Mrs Weasley noticed the frying pan smoking ("Oh dear me!") - not seeing one of the twins toss something into it - and hurried over to look after it. Harry took the opportunity to sink gratefully into a chair. He vaguely wondered where the house-elf was. Probably tidying up the bedrooms, he thought.   
  
"So, how were things at the Muggles?" asked Fred wickedly. Or it might have been George. Harry was too exhausted to tell the difference.   
"Not too bad. Well, better than usual," Harry corrected himself, as Ron walked into the kitchen. He looked slightly calmer as he poured himself a bowl of cereal and sat down.   
"What was the Flyte-by-Nyte like?" asked the other Fred-or-George. "Interesting?"   
"Uh . . . yeah," said Harry slowly, deciding not to tell them about his concussion. "Interesting."   
"It's a good way to get places," said Mrs Weasley without turning around and pouring juice into a glass and stirring a pot of porridge at the same time. She whirled around and dropped a plateful of porridge and the juice in front of Harry, who jumped as they landed in front of him.   
"Why is there only a Flyte-by-Nyte?" asked Harry curiously. "Why not one in the day too?"   
"There was once," said Ron through a mouthful of cereal. "Ages ago, in the 18th century or something. ("17th," interrupted Hermione without looking up from her book. Ron ignored her.) It was called the Waye-by-Daye."   
"But they had to get rid of it, dear," added Mrs Weasley, vigorously chopping at a rasher of bacon with a gleaming knife. "Too many Muggles saw it in the day, goodness me, the night's safer."

****

Chapter 7

After breakfast, the twins hauled Harry's trunk upstairs. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny trooped up the stairs after them to Ron's room. Ron turned around at the last second and shut the door abruptly in Ginny's eager face. Harry felt guilty, but he was somewhat glad that he didn't have to spend the morning being uncomfortably scruinised by a pair of big green adoring eyes. He'd got enough of that with Dobby.   
  
Ron pressed his nose against the glass of the window. He stared at the grey sky and downpour outside.   
"And this is meant to be summer," he said in disbelief. "I could be trying out my new broom . . ."   
Hermione, meanwhile, was admiring Harry's fish.   
"Have they got names?" she asked, staring intently into the tank. The goldfish stared back, moving its mouth open and shut silently in response.   
"I rather like this one," she went on, pointing to it. Harry, who was feeling a little uneasy about the rain for no apparent reason, sat down on Ron's bed.   
"I couldn't think of any," he admitted. "You can if you like."   
"Oh, really?" she exclaimed, delighted. "Okay, this one's Hetty this one's Larry and um er ah I can't think of a name for this one," she rattled off at top speed without pausing for breath. Harry was slightly flabbergasted. Hermione continued to peer through the glass at the little blue fish while Hetty (the goldfish) and Larry (the black angel fish) swam in lofty circles around the tank.   
  
"You can think of a name for this one," she finally decided, speaking over her shoulder.   
"Fair enough," Harry grinned. Then, "Hey, watch it, the tank's leaking!" He jumped up.   
"Chuck them out the window then," said Ron, still staring gloomily out of the window. "There's more than enough water," he added.   
"Now, now, Ron," chided Hermione. "It'll stop soon." Here Ron muttered something very long, very fast, and extremely incomprehensible. Hermione continued. "And don't forget we're going to Diagon Alley tomorrow."   
"IT DOES RAIN IN DIAGON ALLEY TOO, YOU KNOW!" bellowed Ron.   
Harry was still trying to stop the leak with his hands, but in vain.   
"Do something," he begged Hermione and Ron, putting an end to their squabble.   
  
Five minutes later, the three fish were happily swimming around in Mrs Weasley's second best glass salad bowl.   
"There," said Ron, placing the bowl on a high shelf. He seemed to have cheered up considerably, probably a combination of the fact that he was doing something and the added bonus that he hadn't laid eyes on Ditty all morning. "Crookshanks won't be able to get to you here."   
"Oh yeah, where is Crookshanks?" asked Harry, realising that he hadn't seen him at all yet.   
"Probably out somewhere with Pig," replied Hermione. "They really took to each other."   
"Goodness knows why," shuddered Ron. It was a cold hard fact that he didn't like Crookshanks.   
  
While Ron and Hermione were arguing, Harry wandered over to the window and looked outside. It was very dark now, considering that it was only morning. It was so dark that Harry couldn't see the rain, although he could certainly hear it bouncing like a thousand ping pong balls on the Weasleys' roof. A roll of thunder echoed in the distance. Absently, Harry counted the seconds until the lightning came.   
"One, two, three, four, five . . ."   
A bright flash streaked across the sky. The Weasleys' garden was lit up as bright as day for an instant. But in that instant, Harry froze stiff, staring down at the garden in horror. He could see something that chilled him to the bone.   
  
Standing in the middle of the garden, shadowed by a curtain of grey rain, stood Professor Severus Snape. He was pale and gaunt, his face white and haggard, his robes in tatters, and his eyes deep in their sockets. He was staring up at the house. Staring up at Harry. Their eyes were fixed on each other. Harry couldn't move, it was such an awful shock. It seemed like ages that they were standing there, although it was really just a few seconds. Then the light went out and Harry tore himself away from the window. He turned to yell to Hermione and Ron, who were still arguing at the tops of their voices.   
"Down there," he croaked. "Snape was down there . . ."   
But by the time the other two had rushed over to the windown and the next flash of light lit up the sky, Snape was gone.   
  
A while later, Harry was still trying to catch his breath. Ron had his wand out and had his face pressed against the window.   
"Where?" he demanded.   
But Hermione looked doubtful.   
"Well, for one thing, if it was Snape, what would he be doing here, and for another, how could he possibly know where Ron lives?"   
  
Ron waved a hand impatiently, still gazing outside.   
"There's ways of finding that kind of thing out."   
"Magic?" asked Harry curiously.   
"No, school records."   
Hermione was chewing her lip.   
"Anyway, I'm telling you, it was Snape," Harry insisted. "I'd recognise that slimy silhouette anywhere."   
"And remember, we never did find out what it was that Snape was sent to do at the end of last term . . . " finished Ron.

****

Chapter 8

All three stared blankly at each other at this new relevation.   
Then suddenly without warning, the window flew open and a large, tawny, well groomed owl shot into Ron's room like a bullet, making the orange patterned curtains billow up in great puffs and sending papers flying everywhere in a whirlwind of colour. Harry tried to see where the owl was through the melange but something suddenly hit him smack in the face and everything went black. It clung to his face, but he tugged hard and, after a lot of struggling, managed to pull it off (it was a comic - an adventure of Mungo the Faerie).   
He looked around, heart still racing. The papers had fallen to the ground, for the most part, but there were still a few rolls of parchment and moving posters floating around lazily in the air - the posters waving madly at them. Ron sat on the ground in the midst of a humongous pile of colourful mess, looking dazed.   
Harry couldn't see Hermione. He looked in front of him, then spinned around. Nothing. Then he saw a small movement under the massive pile and heard an irritated, muffled voice.   
"Gt ff m' hd, Rn."   
Ron swivelled around to Harry. "What did you say?"   
"Get off my head." The voice was more audible this time.   
Ron realised at the same time Harry did, and jumped up like a hot poker. Hermione climbed out, glaring at him, her jumper in disarray and a piece of parchment on her head.   
"Thanks," she snapped, swiping the parchment to the ground.   
  
Harry looked around for the owl, and saw it perching on a shelf, regarding them with curiosity. It saw Harry looking at it and fluttered down, dropping several pieces of parchment in his lap, then turned to go out of the window. Its downwind was so strong that the window slammed shut behind it and latched itself.   
Totally forgetting about Snape, Harry picked up one of the pieces of parchment and looked at it. It was addressed to Ron. Another revealed itself to be for Hermione, and the last one for him. He passed the letters to the others, then ripped his open.   
  
Dear Mr Potter,   
Mr Draco Malfoy would like to request your presence at his birthday party celebrating the occasion of him turning fifteen.   
Place: Malfoy Manor   
Time: 7.00 pm   
Date: The day after tomorrow   
Please RSVP as soon as possible   
Signed Albert Pickering, the Head Butler, Malfoy Manor   
We sincerely hope to see you there.   
  
Harry blinked. He looked up at Ron. Ron was looking back at him. Ron blinked. He opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, but no sound came out. He closed his mouth again. Harry turned to Hermione, who looked just as befuddled as Ron. She blinked. Once. Twice. Harry blinked back. They all blinked at each other.   
  
At last Hermione spoke.   
"Malfoy's asking US to his party?"   
Ron was looking blank. "Weird."   
Hermione was looking stupefied.   
"Very weird."   
Harry didn't know what to think. Hermione continued.   
"Of all the people he could ask, why us? And, (here she blushed) particularly me. I mean, my parents are, you know, muggles."   
Neither Harry nor Ron had anything to say to that. Then finally, Ron spoke tentitavely.   
"Maybe he just invited our whole class." He scanned his invitation closely. To Harry and Herrmione's surprise, he suddenly sniggered.   
"Look, he got his butler to sign it."   
Hermione was looking worried.   
"I don't know, do you think we should go?"   
"What, to see dear old Draco?" scoffed Ron.   
"Not a chance," finished Harry.   
"Let's go see what your mum thinks, Ron," Hermione said firmly. Reluctantly, Harry and Ron got up and followed her downstairs.   
  
They found Mrs Weasley directing Ditty at the stove, with Mr Weasley reading his paper at the table. Ron's jaw visibly tightened as he saw Ditty. Hermione noticed, and burst in first, waving her invitation around.   
"Look, Mrs Weasley, we just got birthday invites!"   
"Oh, how lovely," Mrs Weasley smiled. "Something for you to do in this awful weather. Who's party is it, dear?"   
"Draco," said Harry quickly.   
"Malfoy," added Ron, gritting his teeth.   
Mr Weasley looked up, his eyes suddenly shining.   
"Malfoy? I don't suppose you can have a little look around for me, check everything's, ah, let me see . . . legitimate?"   
  
Hermione looked aghast.   
"But Mr Weasley, we can't do that!"   
Mrs Weasley looked sternly at Mr Weasley.   
"She's right, Arthur. That's not fair to them. Imagine the consequences! You can't let your personal scuffles with Lucius Malfoy get in the way of your judgement."   
Mr Weasley looked guilty.   
"Still, there's no harm in keeping your eyes peeled, eh?" he said hopefully.   
  
Fred and George immediately grabbed grapes from the fruit bowl and shoved them under their eyelids, grinning toothily at their father. Mrs Weasley shuddered.   
"Don't do that!" She surveyed them closely like a hawk until they reluctantly reached up to take the grapes out. Suddenly George clapped a hand over his eye.   
"Oowow! My eye! It's leaking!" he howled.   
Mrs Weasley was at his side in an instant.   
"What is it? Are you hurt?" she shrieked.   
George removed his hand from his eye and grinned.   
"Just kidding, Mum."   
Mrs Weasley towered over him, hands planted on her hips. George winced as she began yelling furiously at him. Fred guffawed loudly, until she turned on him too.   
  
"So are we going?" Harry yelled over the racket.   
"I guess so," Ron yelled back.   
Mr Weasley was wisely ignoring the noise.   
"Your school letters came today," he told Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny, over the din in the kitchen. They took the letters which he handed them and sat down to read them, trying to shut out the noise.   
Harry was eager to see his new fifth year requirements. He and Ron were taking the same subjects again, something Hermione had advised them to do as they led up to their O.W.L.S. They were taking only one new course - Druidism. Both had agreed that it would be a welcome change from Divination. That was until after they had already chosen it, when they found out that their Divination teacher, Professor Trelawney, took it as well.   
Harry skimmed through the letter that accompanied the supplies list, then turned to the book list. He was glad to see that it didn't contain any biting books, or any books by Gilderoy Lockhart. In fact, it contained some very interesting looking books (although he shuddered to see that `Death Omens: Where To Look For Them' was required for Divination).   
  
Harry finished reading his list, then glanced over at Hermione's. He wasn't surprised to see at least twice the number of books that were on his and Ron's lists. Then he looked over at Ginny's. Ron had warned her very seriously against taking up Divination, and she had heeded his advice and chosen . . .   
"Culinary Arts?" read Harry, puzzled. "That can't have been on our subjects list of fourth year, or I would have chosen it instead of Divination."   
"It wasn't," replied Ginny, colouring slightly. "It's a new subject this year."   
"Some people get all the luck," muttered Ron.   
"I wonder who's teaching it," pondered Hermione, looking up from her list for a moment.   
"Who cares," Ron dismissed it.   
  
Harry suddenly noticed that the shouting had stopped. He looked over to the other table. Fred and George were sullenly reading their lists. Mrs Weasley was shooting them dark looks while washing a huge pile of dishes that were stacked as high as the ceiling.   
"You can just watch your behaviour, you two," she was saying, "or you won't be going to the Festival of Necromancy tomorrow."   
Fred and George cast each other dismayed looks.   
"But Mum, we've got a stall booked and everything," complained Fred.   
"Then you can just learn some better manners or else stay at home," snapped back Mrs Weasley.   
"Oh, Mum . . ."   
  
Harry turned to Ron.   
"What's the Festival of Necromancy?"   
Ron looked up. "It started ages ago, hundreds of years probably. Some kind of magic competition. These days it's just a big market day. They hold it once every year. There's all kinds of stalls and cool stuff."   
"Where is it?"   
"Right in Diagon Alley. It's always packed. Usually they hold it much later in the year, but they've changed the date this year. I dunno why."   
"So we can go?"   
"Yup."   
  
Harry looked back at Fred and George, who had stuck a small rubber Hippogriff in Mrs Weasley's hair and were sniggering together.   
"And Fred and George have a stall?" he asked curiously.   
Ron nodded. "Yeah, they're doing a joke stall or something. It should be pretty good. I'm surpirsed Mum let them, but I think she made some kind of deal with them about their school work. I'm going to bring all my money, there's always some really good bargains."   
The rest of the day passed fairly quietly, and that night, Harry and Ron sent off the RSVP to Malfoy's party via Hedwig before having fun discussing the ulterior motive behind it, until they drifted off to sleep. Just before his eyes closed, Harry remembered his brief encounter with Snape, shivering. A sharp pain shot through his scar as he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.   
  
The next day, they were roused none too gently by the twins, who seemed to have regained their high spirits by the prospect of the Festival of Necromancy. Fred yanked the covers off Ron while George bounced on the end of Harry's bed.   
"Come on sleepy heads, get up!"   
"Whassat?" Ron mumbled into his pillow.   
They slowly got up, and yawning, pulled on jeans and T-shirts. Ron stuck his head out of the window.   
"Oh good, it's grey, but not raining."   
They stumbled down to the kitchen where Ginny and Hermione were waiting, looking considerably more fresher than the boys.   
"Pancakes?" called Mrs Weasley cheerfully, a tall stack already flipping themselves in the air while batter poured out of the tip of her wand into the frying pan.   
  
They all sat down at the table, each with a huge pile of pancakes and a large appetite. While they dug in, Harry was intregued to see Fred and George lugging several large boxes and signs into the hall. One of the boxes gave a queer shudder and Fred kicked it, before grinning wickedly at Harry and disappearing upstairs again after George.   
Harry ate gradually more and more slowly. Every time he finished his plate, Mrs Weasley dumped a new stack on it. Finally, Mr Weasley came into the kitchen.   
"All ready then?" he asked, rubbing his hands eagerly together. Harry and Hermione shot up, already absolutely full to the brim with pancakes. Ron stayed seated, wiping up the last bit of maple syrup with a pancake.   
"Yeph, eday," he mumbled through a large mouthful.   
  
Harry grabbed his letter from the table and followed everyone out to the Weasleys' two cars. Mrs Weasley shook his head with longing regret as he watched the twins heaving the huge boxes into the cars, trying to squeeze things into every available corner and crevice. Harry could tell that he was itching to magically expand both cars' interiors to the sizes of buses, but Mrs Weasley had her eye trained firmly on him. When the twins had finished, Harry, Ron, Hermione, Fred, and Mrs Weasley squeezed into the first car, and George, Ginny, and Mr Weasley followed behind in the smaller car.   
Mrs Weasley had a lot of trouble with the traffic lights that she encountered, zooming through the red ones, slamming on the brakes at the greens, and turning left at all the yellows. Luckily, it was early Sunday morning and not many people were out and about yet. They somehow eventually managed to get there fairly uneventfully, parking around the corner from the famous Leaky Cauldron.   
  
Everyone obediently filed through the tiny, grubby pub behind Mr Weasley. It was quite crowded. Harry recognised Morticola, an old hag he had sometimes seen in there before. She recognised him too, because she raised a scrawny, claw-like hand and cackled loudly, before sinking back into a plate of what looked suspiciously like churned up mouse guts.   
The Weasleys, Hermione, and Harry squeezed into the tiny alley around the back of the pub. There were a great many people going in and out of Diagon Alley through the brick wall that was the doorway to the wizarding world, far more than usual.   
"It's because of the Festival of Necromancy," Mr Weasley explained, as if they couldn't have worked it out for themselves. It was so busy that the doorway in the brick wall was completely open the whole time. A harried looking young wizard was directing traffic, a fluorescent orange tunic draped over his robes. The tunic clashed horribly with his red hair. Harry looked at him closely and did a double take as he recognised Bill Weasley.   
So did Mrs Weasley.   
  
"Bill, dear!" she called, waving wildly as she squeezed herself like a cork out of a bottle to the front of the queue. "Why aren't you in Africa!"   
"Hey Mum!" Bill called back, stopping the flow of people from the other side with a flourish of his wand, allowing their side to move forward. "I'll talk to you later," he promised her as they pushed through. He gave Harry a friendly grin as Harry wriggled past. Skinny as he was, it was still a tight fit. "Alright, Harry?"   
Harry barely had time to nod back before he was swept through with the others into Diagon Alley.

****

Chapter 9

Harry stood stock still in the middle of the cobbled lane. He'd never seen Diagon Alley this packed. It was always busy, but this was incredible. All kinds of stalls lined the narrow street - rickety old contraptions with flapping canvas covers, neat wooden stands displaying arrays of goods, and even one old cackling wizard pushing a pile of books around in a huge wheelbarrow. Harry suddenly felt a whooshing sound near his ear and instinctively ducked, turning to see what it was. He gaped. Brooms were floating everywhere. Some hovered lazily above stalls with colourful advertising banners flapping in the breeze draped over them, while others shot around with firmly fixed trays of sample products and goods. There was music blasting from all directions - mostly from individuals on pipes or lutes, but also some groups on small wooden stages that had been especially erected. The whole thing was a blur of colour and noise, and Harry didn't want to miss any of it.   
  
"Move along there," he heard Mr Weasley call from behind, "you're holding up traffic."   
Harry was pushed along in the crowd by the flow of people, Ron and Hermione beside him. As he was hurried forward, he saw some people he knew. There was Seamus Finnigan, inspecting a pile of something with his parents. He saw Colin Creevey and his small brother Dennis scurrying around like charged up mice; Colin eagerly snapping pictures with his camera of everything. Harry got past them as quickly as possible. Then he felt a hand on his arm, and Hermione was yanking him back to the side of the street, where all the Weasleys were standing next to one of the more rickety stalls, which was empty as yet.   
  
"It's this one," the twins insisted to Mrs Weasley, who was unfolding a giant map that just kept unfolding and unfolding until it was as large as a bedsheet or two.   
"Yes, dears," she spoke absently while scanning the map. "Hmm, lessee . . . ah, here we are, boys," she finished brightly as she folded the map back up to the size of a stamp and put it into her giant handbag. Fred rolled his eyes.   
"How many Weasleys do you think there are, Mum," he snapped, pointing to the label on the stand that clearly depicted their name.   
"Just making sure," she shot back, slightly red-faced. The twins strained as they lifted one of the boxes on to the stand. Harry hastened around the back to help Ron with the next one, while Ginny and Hermione unrolled the red and purple striped canvas tarp that stretched over the top of the stand.   
"Well, have a nice time," Mrs Weasley said, grabbing Mr Weasley by the arm. "Make sure you get all your school things, and look after Ginny [here that young lady scowled], don't talk to Snibbles, don't buy any rubbish . . ." Mr Weasley manuvered her away into the crowd, still talking at the top of her lungs as she moved out of sight.   
  
George banged one of the boxes and a few red sparks shot through the side, leaving tiny smoking holes in the cardboard. Everyone except the twins jumped back.   
"Just checking," grinned George. Harry wondered what on earth could be in the boxes, then decided that he wasn't too keen to find out. Ron began undoing a box.   
"So where do you want this stuff?" he asked. Fred placed a hand on Ron's and pulled it away from the box while George calmly began unrolling a sheet around the stand.   
"What's that for?" asked Hermione.   
"To keep people away until we're ready," replied Fred. "Bye bye."   
Ron scowled. "Fine, we get the message."   
"Good," replied George simply.   
  
He picked up his old broom which appeared to be moving in time with the music of the nearest lute player, and gave it a tap. It rose into the air like the others, and from it unfurled a huge purple banner with FG Oax written on it in flashing letters. Fred unrolled a package and placed a tiny trumpet on the desk of the stand, and pressed something on the top.   
"What's that?" Harry began to ask, but his words were interrupted by the sound of a huge fanfare by a whole brass section.   
"That," said George. People were turning and staring at the stand. The lute player was sending them daggers. The twins grinned and ducked behind the stand. Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny stared at each other, then at the stand. They suddenly heard scuffling, then a hand reached out from behind the billowing sheets and stuck a small sign up, reading - 5 MINUTES.   
  
"Let's go," suggested Hermione.   
"Okay, let's take turns picking where we go," said Ron, getting over his disappointment. "You first Hermione . . . except the bookstore," he added as she opened her mouth. She closed it.   
"Or the library," he added as she opened her mouth again. She shut it, turning beet red.   
"Or the . . ."   
Hermione butted in.   
"Shut up, Ron!" she said angrily. "What happened to taking turns?"   
"Okay then, you pick, Harry," replied Ron, unfazed. Hermione stuck her nose in the air. Harry thought quickly. "Euh, how about . . . having a look at the brooms?" he finished.   
"Fine by me," nodded Ron, trying hard to supress a grin. "Now it's like I get two turns!" he finished. Hermione sniffed.   
  
The small group weaved their way through the crowd. As they pushed past the people heading in the opposite direction, something occured to Harry.   
"Ron, what's a Snibble?" he asked, recalling what Mrs Weasley had said.   
"Some kind of weird animal with black hair. They look sort of like us, but not really," he finished lamely. "They're fairly common," he added, "and they're meant to be real weirdos, but that's just Mum for you, freaking out about nothing. Look, there's one," he said, pointing to a tall figure with a head of black hair on the other side of the road. He kept walking. Harry was intregued, and moved faster to see the creature's face. Suddenly it turned towards him just for a second, and his stomach turned over as he realised that it wasn't a Snibble's face turned towards him, but the pale face of Snape, the familiar black eyes narrowed in his direction. Harry's heart gave a jump and he hurried forward. When he turned around again, Snape was gone.

****

Chapter 10

"Come on, Harry," yelled Ron, "keep up!"  
Harry numbly moved forward, wondering whether he should tell Ron about Snape. Then he decided against it. He didn't want Ron or the others freaking out about nothing.   
Or something like nothing, anyway.   
He broke into a light jog, still following the others, when a sharp pain flooded through his scar and he saw stars. He promptly sat down very hard, shaking his head a few times. Then he looked up, to discover that he had run into one of the hovering broomsticks that was much lower than the others, at head height. Then he heard a tiny squeaky voice.  
"Harry Potter, it is! Sir is not hurt?"  
"_Dobby_?" Harry said increduously. And Dobby it was.  
Harry stood up, helped by an eager crowd of house elves. Dobby stood at knee height, gazing up at Harry, unshed tears gleaming in his eyes. He was wearing a bright yellow shirt and an oversized red jacket. He had long knobbly socks pulled up to his waist, one of them purple and green, the other blue with pink spots.  
"I'm okay, Dobby," Harry said quickly. "_Really_," he added as Dobby's hand strayed to a stick lying on the ground. Dobby broke into a beaming smile, as did all the other house elfs gathered around him.

"Mr Harry Potter, would he like some socks?" asked another tiny voice.  
"Socks?" echoed Harry. Then he saw that the small stall in front of him was hung with socks of every shape and form - wool, cotton, bright, dull, gaudy, patterned, hole-ridden, shredded, and he even thought he saw a pair of plastic socks.  
"Um . . . " Harry looked ahead. He could just make out the others going into the broom shop. "Sure, why not," he said. "Pick any pair you like," he added to one of the small elves, who looked delighted and turned to closely scrutinise all the colourful socks.

Harry turned to Dobby.  
"So, how are you?" he asked.   
"Oh, me is doing good," Dobby nodded. "All Hogwarts elves is here for holidaysee, we is running socks stall. Professor Dumbledore bought some socks the morning," he added proudly. Harry smiled. He knew Dumbledore's passion for socks.  
"And how's Winky doing?" he asked.  
Rather surprisingly, Dobby turned red.  
"Oh, she is fine," he said, standing on one leg and looking rather bashful. "Sir knows, sir should know . . . Dobby is . . . Dobby had . . ."   
Harry raised his eyebrows, hoping that Dobby hadn't tried to 'protect' him again.  
"Spit it out."  
Dobby took a deep breath.  
"Dobby and Winky is . . . engargeed."  
"You're engaged?" asked Harry in surprise. "Congratulations!"  
Dobby broke out into one of those huge beams again.  
"Thankee, Harry Potter, sir. Would sir and his great friends like to join at the wedding?"  
"Sure," said Harry. "When is it?"  
"Oh, during the year, it is," said Dobby shyly.  
"That's great, Dobby!" grinned Harry. "Look, I really have to get back to the others, but we'll come back today, how's that?"  
Dobby nodded happily. Another house elf came up behind him.

"There is the socks, sir," said the tiny creature. Harry stared at the pair, which were bright green and had obviously been designed to look like snakes, with a tiny flap at the end for a tongue, red wool eyes, and narrow black slits for nostrils . . .  
Harry gulped.  
"Uh, how about those ones instead," he said, pointing to a fuzzy pair, one yellow and one red. He tried to brush off a tiny black spot from the red one that looked about the same shape as the one on his fish, then gave it up. He walked away carrying his new purchases, and went to join the others in the broom shop. He found Hermione standing impatiently by the counter.  
"You took your time," she said as soon she saw him.  
"I saw Dobby," he explained, as they went to find the others. 

Ron and Ginny were looking at the brooms in the middle row, the reasonable priced ones. Harry saw the Lightyear there and realised Ron was telling the truth. For all its finery, it wasn't an expensive broom, but it wasn't cheap either. Although it was near the higher end of the range. Ginny saw them coming and turned around.  
"Hi," she said. "Take a look at this," she said to Harry, pointing to a nice broom in the middle, with a dark polish and fairly straight post, named the Moonshadow II. It was an awful lot of money for a middle-of-the-range broom, but Ginny seemed to have her heart set on it. Ron rolled his eyes.  
"Mum's getting her a broom for her birthday," he explained, "and she wants this one. There's lots of other good brooms," he suddenly snapped, turning to Ginny.   
Ginny's eyes narrowed.  
"You just don't want me having a better one than you," she retorted.  
"So?" said Ron. "What's wrong with that?"   
Harry tried to break up the argument.  
"I just saw Dobby," he told Ron.  
It worked . . . to an extent.  
"Really?" exclaimed Ron. "Where?"  
"The sock stall. He's getting married to Winky."  
Even Hermione looked surprised.  
"I just realised something," Ron began. "There's no Ditty at school! Callay! She can't touch my broom."  
"Your broom," muttered Ginny. 

Harry wondered how to break the tension. He looked outside and saw some boys a little younger than him, dressed scruffily.  
"They don't go to Hogwarts, do they?" he asked the others, puzzled.  
"Probably not," replied Hermione. "There's lots of magic kids who don't go to Hogwarts. Imagine how crowded it would be? Of course, they can still get into Diagon Alley." She caught the look on Harry's face. "Oh, don't tell me you never realised there were more than forty kids of your age who are magic in some way?"  
Judging by the look on Ron's face, Harry concluded he'd never realised it either.


End file.
